


Musings of a Mistitled God

by Potassium



Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potassium/pseuds/Potassium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This kingdom is yours...yours, and it is as beautiful as any the world has ever seen. And yet, not all kingdoms are meant to be conquered. Not all gods appreciate their title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Descent from Heaven

"They treat you as a god."

Heh. God.

The grand title causes the slightest of twists to draw up the corner of your dry lips into a rugged half-smirk, though the word seems unfamiliar as you roll it around in your mouth; the closest to an ironic smile Deva's dilapidated body can manage is a mechanical simper.

Plenty time spent unused has not treated your chakra medium well, even worse than a month of fasting, insomnia, and constant pain has treated you.

If you are a god, then this is your land. Your kingdom. And it is as beautiful as any the world has ever seen.

Amegakure's skyline is significantly distinguished by the particularly dark storm clouds that circled overhead and the piercing heights of your village's signature skyscrapers. Many feet below, a large mob of civilians gaze up at the back  
of Deva's head, trying to get as good a glimpse as they can at their god.

Even from here, you can tell the emotion that skitters across their faces. You can smell it from a mile away…

_Fear…_

For the first time, you are not pitied as you were as a child; you are feared. You are feared, and you embrace it, you deserve it, you love it.

And you realize just as suddenly, God is not the title you desire.

The sheer height of your outlook onto Amegakure does not prevent the heavy drops of rain from pelting your face in a relentless barrage, traveling down the sharp ridge of your cheekbones and dripping off the bottom of your chin like salty tears. Now is not the time for tears, however. You've cried enough. Now is the time for celebration.

Yet how easy is it to celebrate a man's death, even if it was for the advancement of your idealisms?

"They treat me as a god," you spit the last word out with disgust, though it still left a bad taste on your that not even the cold rain can erase, "Though that does not make me one. Does it, Konan?"

It's a question you do not expect an answer to, and as such, you do not receive one. Your eyes are closed, yet you can see through Deva that Konan's calm expression doesn't waver. She is by now used to your philosophical post-mortems, and knows better than to answer directly.

Instead, she dances around the flames in a cautious tenor. "You are what you make of yourself, Pain-sama."

Konan's equally cryptic response does nothing to satisfy you, and you press on with more a forceful tone, "He is gone, Konan. Jiraiya is gone, and he is not coming back. "

 _There_. You do not know why, but somehow the pained expression that strikes Konan's eye gives you a rush of adrenaline, something you have not felt since the battle, and you deliberately look down upon her as she bows her head. Her expression breaks, softens like Deidara's clay, and you see not the taciturn woman that she was forced to grow into so quickly, but the young girl that you loved in your youth. Yet now, you hate it.

Of all three of you, Konan was easily the closest to your former sensei and you knew it. You could see the muddled protest in her grey eyes when you announced your plans for the gray-haired Sannin the day you detected his presence in your village.

Yet Jiraiya was gone now, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Gone, like Orochimaru.

Gone, like Tsunade.

Gone, like Hanzo.

Gone.

_Like Yahiko._

Yet no.

Yahiko is alive, and he stands directly next to you, clad in the red and black cloak that he designed in his youth. And once again, you realize that the Akatsuki was his idea, and once again you realize just how much you owe him.

_Are you satisfied, Yahiko? Satisfied with how I've progressed your dream?_

This does not satisfy you, however, and in the back of your mind you wonder just how soft you have gotten in your slumber of sorts. Even beyond the fact that this Yahiko does not have the ear-to-ear smile that young Yahiko always had.

This Yahiko's eyes are dull, and his face adorned with metals, and his mouth in a hard line. This Yahiko does not have the flesh or blood that made humans; this Yahiko is kept animated by only your chakra.

But that was still fine...Wasn't it?

Yahiko is still here, isn't he?

And that still counts, doesn't it?

_Doesn't it?_

"Doesn't it, Konan? Does the flesh and blood that determines humans really matter?"

Konan's lips part slightly in compressed surprise at your sudden speech, though her eyes remain emotionless. You notice her right hand forming seals out of reflex on her lap, and you watch through Deva's eyes for a slight moment. Snake, horse, snake, horse, snake, horse.

And then you frown.

Konan is left-handed.

She notices you staring, and quickly ceases her activity, before she mutters in a tone just louder than the roaring wind, "Kakuzu is dead."

A slight chuckle escapes your lips, though it is carried away by the tempest before it reaches her ears.

_And probably much past his time._

You are no fool; you know that you do not fully possess the Akatsuki's loyalties, not all of them. They personify the Shinobi's purpose as tools; In fact, you believe that Kisame – and perhaps Itachi – is the only one who wouldn't act less than kindly if given the opportunity to meet your true self, the primary reason you refused to allow them personal vantage over you.

And like Jiraiya, most of them were gone now.

Sasori had been settled by his grandmother and the Kyuubi vessel's partner.

Deidara had foolishly overestimated his 'ultimate' technique, resulting in his unhelpful suicide that didn't even succeed in taking out his target.

Kakuzu had died trying to infiltrate Konoha; Hidan was dead, if not still dying.

Though Itachi's death puzzled you the most. The Uchiha was easily the most skilled of the Akatsuki, with the exception of you, and you honestly don't believe his death to his brother was anything less than suspicious at the least.

Zetsu and Kisame were still alive, though presumably not for long if events were to continue along their current scale.

And finally, Tobi. The true leader...yet he is not God. The people do not bow to him.

_I am god...Or at least, presumed to be..._

"The boy will be coming for you, Pain-sama."

Ah, yes.

Naruto Uzumaki…Jiraiya's final student. If your brief encounter and Zetsu's descriptions of the boy were anything to stand by, you doubted it would be long before he charged into your kingdom, armed to kill.

"Not if I strike first. My body may have certain restrictions, Konan, but my mind does not. Konoha is weak, and I plan to take full advantage of that."

For the first time in a while, you rise onto predictably unsteady feet, though you are not the one that walks down the many steps to Amegakure; Yahiko - no, Deva - is.

If you must play the role of God, then so be it.

"Let us go, my angel. It is time for us to descend from heaven."


	2. Man of Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battlefield is your home. Your maturing grounds, of sorts. You were made, crafted here, and your rule is just as impressive in combat as it is in diplomacy. And yet that does not soften your victims' eyes as they stare lifelessly into your own.

As you grip the metal through Preta's hand, dissatisfaction made apparent through the incipient frown that dances across your face, you wonder what inescapable situation Hidan maneuvered himself into in his final hour.

The Jashinist's red scythe seems even more uncommon in the hands of your chakra pawn. Even with the death of its owner, the weapon gleams in the brilliant light of the sun's ray, still possessing its atypical incisiveness and menacing 'glow', as if it was not an inanimate object but in fact a living being pining to slice through soft flesh. You find yourself wondering why a blade of this caliber was left in solitude instead of being used as a deadly tool in war.

It isn't until you focus your gaze that you notice the blood that soaks Preta's pale hand, drying by the second under the glare of the sun, and you shift your purple eyes to the bodies that litter the floor around you. You fight back a sorrowful sigh; the adrenaline that you receive from fresh kills has long since died down, and now you feel nothing but emptiness as you lock your gaze in the lifeless brown eyes of one of the deceased.

You feel something hot rising in your stomach as you command Preta's eyes away from the murder and back to skimming up and down the length of the magnificent red scythe, ignoring the fresh bodies of Konoha's recently murdered scouts scattered around the dirt, and your frown deepens.

Is this feeling…Pride?

Though still, this is not the type of pride a father feels watching his son's first kill, something you were never able to receive. This pride, you imagine, would hardly be mutual if the one on the receiving end was alive to know of it. This pride borders on respect; respect for wielding such a fine blade, respect for putting up with his egotistical partner, and respect for dying what you assume to be an honorable death.

Pride. You attribute the warm feeling rising from your abdomen as such, not wanting to lose this emotion that is somewhat akin to that of happiness.

For pride is not something that you are able to feel often, even taking in consideration the fact that you had visited the dying places of each of the deceased Akatsuki; for you are a man of honor, and considering you were lying to each and every one of them, paying your final dues was the least you could do to show your appreciation.

Itachi had garnered from you a grudging respect, for the man in his entirety, something you were not able to see due to a prevailing injury, had strength you assume to rival yours. His corpse was surprisingly well preserved, aside from the dried blood that sat in flakes on his pale skin, even pastier in death than in life.

Deidara was slightly harder to acknowledge, considering that you never found his body; though the crater which you presumed served as his grave contained his distinguishable chakra signature, and lots of it. A small smile, genuine, had found its way onto your face, and you dryly noted as you said your quiet respects that it seems that Akatsuki's youngest had gone out with a bang, as Deidara himself fervently said he would.

He died not for your cause, but for what he believed in. And you respect that.

It merely took one look at Sasori's dying pose to tell that the troubled man had finally found peace within himself. Sadly, you found that you could not say the same for Kakuzu…though both men received from you a prayer. They were talented members of your cult.

Though Hidan was different.

You remember his inauguration of sorts, a surprisingly quiet occasion considering the surrounding personalities. Itachi, the person who had initially discovered the priest and his talents, you knew would handle the situation with his typical laconic nature; though Hidan, considering the fact that he literally came into the Akatsuki base scythe first – something he loves to do, you would soon discover – suggested that he wasn't one to hold his tongue.

You remember your initial amusement as you watched the two figures through Asura's eyes, not so much at the fact that Hidan walked through the mouth of the cave with his scythe at Itachi's – who looked relatively calm considering the situation – Adam's apple, poised to slit his throat, but moreover the fact that he actually walked.

There wasn't a hint of fear displayed in the silver-haired man's face, and if you hadn't known better, you would have assumed that Itachi was the prisoner rather than the guard. He seemed perfectly content with barging into unknown territory.

That is, until Itachi disappeared.

You hadn't been able to help the small chuckle that slipped from your tongue as the Uchiha appeared again behind Hidan, and you found yourself once again amazed by Itachi's prodigal Genjutsu prowess. As expected, Hidan's expression morphed from confusion, to anger, to disappointment, and with a twisting of his hip he swung his scythe so swiftly through the air behind him in a crescent motion you could hear the clean swoosh as it sliced.

Perhaps because he knew he no longer was required to delude his 'captor' with false feelings of power over him in order to bring him back to the Akatsuki base, Itachi easily dodged the strike and grabbed the underside of Hidan's arm as it finished its hemispherical motion.

It wasn't until then that Hidan looked up at you. And you saw the emotion that you hated the most, reflected in his dark eyes: fear.

Except this time, you understood.

Or at least you believe you did; of course fear was going to be among the chief emotions of someone whose current task is as daunting as being forced to join possibly the most dangerous cult ever to see light in the Shinobi countries. Yet for Hidan, it was different.

To this day, you still don't truly understand what happened in that moment, that brief, fleeting moment of eye contact. Perhaps it was due to the young man's age, nearly a boy, or perhaps it was due to how easily he was countered by Itachi, but you nearly felt sorry for him.

And you nearly felt sorry for all of the members of Akatsuki that you lorded over. You asked them to throw their lives away for you, lying scum that you are, filled them with illusions of grandeur, a perfect world in which they were rulers beside you.

Perfect world you may create, they shall be nothing more but the ground you tread beneath your feet. They are not God, privileged as you are, and they will eventually be reduced to naught but faded text in the weathered book of history of which you are the author.

And in the next second the moment was gone, and Hidan was being led deeper into the cave with Itachi's grip on his arm never wavering, and you were left to stare at nothing but the dirt floor through Asura's eyes, long dehydrated by lack of moisture.

Yet the emotion – pity – remained in your chest long after that.

And months later, whenever Konan informed you of Hidan's return from a successful mission with his eventual partner, Kakuzu, you felt the same feeling that you felt earlier: a variant of pride, bordering on respect.

The delicate song of a bird soaring overhead draws you out of your phantasmagoric memories, and you turn Deva's head slightly west. Even if the trees obscure your vision of Konoha's village entrance, you can see smoke rising overhead from the buildings and you can hear the joyous laughter of children as they are released from an even larger building you presume to be Konoha's Shinobi Academy.

A smirk melts onto your lips as you reminisce upon Yahiko's brief stint in Amegakure's Shinobi Academy; instead of being released every day with smiles, the children left the doors of the Academy soaked in blood and sorrow, responsible for being forced to kill yet another of their classmates in the daily spar. Konoha surely doesn't approve of such methods, you imagine.

"It is time."

If you had been any more startled, perhaps it would have appeared on Deva's face. Thankfully, however, you quickly compose yourself and turn toward your blue haired Angel; she had been so quiet, you nearly forgot she had fought alongside you against Konoha's scouts ten minutes ago. Her gaze slides from the Deva's emotionless face, to the scythe, and back again, and understanding resides in her eyes.

You nod in agreement to her previous statement, and begin building chakra in your eyes and transfer into to Deva; the incipient stages of your Rinnegan-enabled flight. You hesitate one final time, however, and turn toward the ruffled patch of grass that you assume to be Hidan's grave. In one step, you close the distance, and carefully rest the scythe in an upright position next to the grass. You close your eyes and mutter a brief prayer.

For you are a man of honor, and you respect your comrades' lives nearly as much as you do your own.

You hesitate no longer, and ride the familiar pulling sensation in your stomach as Deva rises into the air, aware of Konan's gaze burning into Deva's back; you see the way she avoids eyeing Hidan's grave. It takes mere seconds for you to be levitating a comfortable height over Konoha, watching the miniscule figures navigate the village's streets.

"So this is the village Jiraiya-sensei resided in," your voice goes up a pitch as you tend to Jiraiya's honorific, something you find you were unable to lose following the man's death. You allow a few more moments to pass before you begin to build up chakra in the methodical way you are used to by now.

Indeed, you are a man of honor, though this hardly honorable feat of destroying a village in cold blood is necessary. Even Gods must get their hands dirty occasionally.


End file.
